He waited a little longer on the balcony, the metal armrest warm under his hand. He shifted in the chair, exhausted but refusing to move. The house felt too empty without her. Too silent. Too unfamiliar.
And then… he heard it.
Her voice.
Faint, coming from the neighbour’s house—laughing, talking, probably discussing something as she always did. He closed his eyes for a moment. That sound alone eased something tight inside him. But still, he didn’t get up. He didn’t call out. He just waited… wanting to see her walk through the gate.
A few minutes later, the latch clicked. The gate opened. She stepped in, adjusting the edge of her saree, still speaking something to herself. She looked up—and froze for a second when she saw him sitting there.
“Aiyo! Why are you sitting out here?” she asked, her voice filled with concern.
“Did you eat anything? Aren’t you hungry? Look at you… you’re so tired. Why didn’t you go inside and rest on the bed for a while?”
He didn’t say anything immediately. Just smiled. A small, tired smile—but a real one. Seeing her was like someone had poured cool water over a burning day. The weight on his chest lifted, even if just a little.
They went inside together.
She walked ahead, fussing, switching on the fan, removing her slippers hurriedly. He followed slowly.
“Sit,” she said, almost ordering him.
She went to the kitchen and returned with a glass of chilled juice. She handed it to him with that motherly stare that was half-love, half-scolding.
“What happened? Why do you look like you walked through a desert?” she asked.
“Didn’t you come by bus or taxi?”
He took a sip before answering, and then gave a half-embarrassed smile.
“I… ran out of money,” he said softly. “Couldn’t afford a bus or auto. So… I walked.”
She put her hand on her forehead dramatically.
“Ayyo! So far? Oh god…”
She shook her head. “How many times should I tell you? Always keep extra money when you go out. We never know what will happen. I’ll give you some, keep it safely.”
He didn’t argue. Just kept sipping the juice.
“And what about the interview?” she asked cautiously.
He hesitated, his eyes dropping to the floor.
“It didn’t go well,” he said. “Feels like I’ll fail again… this time too. Let me rest a bit. I’ll… go to my room.”
His voice cracked a little—not enough for her to comment, but enough for her to notice.
He placed the half-empty glass on the table and stood up. His shoulders drooped; the exhaustion of the day, the disappointment of the interview, and the weight of his own thoughts pressed into him all at once.
Slowly, he walked to his room.
As he disappeared inside, his mother stood in the hall, watching him with worry filling her eyes. She whispered a quiet prayer under her breath, taking God’s name, asking for strength for her son… asking for something good to finally come his way.
Because a mother can hide her fears from the world—
but never from herself.
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